I wander through a dusty room. Stare at a photograph in a dented, fake gold frame. Lying on his big brothers chest, his tiny feet in the air. A choo-choo train on his shirt. An almost toothless grin dimples his pink cheeks.
The curtain flutters above, brushed by a single fly. The Tonka truck and a flat soccer ball waiting silently in the corner, next to bags and boxes of forgotten memories.
I gaze into the past, the photo I took the same day he learned to walk. Holding on to his big brother’s fingers. Tippy toes bare against the bright, spring green grass.
The dandilions such a sunny yellow next to their heads, almost reflecting in their bright eyes. As he tickled him, they were both giggling, full of love and light, trust and innocence, on this day.
If my home caught fire tonight, I would grab just this picture on my way out.